


Look Left, See Death, and Run (If You Can)

by Helholden



Series: Ghosts on Your Pillow, Blame on My Hands [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Banshee Lydia Martin, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Games, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows that he’s dirty, so make her feel worthy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Left, See Death, and Run (If You Can)

**Author's Note:**

> **Author’s Notes:** This is a bit different from my usual style, but I wanted to venture out of my comfort zone and try something new. I wanted to write more from the character’s perspective and thoughts rather than the author describing a scene apart, and it’s interesting how it turned out. This story was inspired by the song “Coward” by Hayden Calnin, a song featured at the end of 04x06. I heard the lyrics, and they just _screamed_ Pydia. So, this is my first foray into Teen Wolf. Feedback is much appreciated!

_* * *_

 

 

There’s a patter of rain against the rooftop, and he slowly closes his eyes. He can hear the distant rain as he can feel the moon above. Their presence flows through his veins like blood. The pull is light like the wind, but just as transcendental. It is the tickle of a faint breeze to lift the hairs on the back of his neck. Throughout his soul, he feels it. Perfect awareness. It has always been there. No matter how many years of training, no matter how much mastery, or how much control— _and there is only so much_ , a voice whispers back—there’s no growing out of it. It’s always there, always present, and he feels it now. He feels it always.

 

He opens his eyes to the expanse of his darkened loft, but his heightened senses allow him to see all. It’s a black sky outside, but a silver light spills through the curtainless windows to adorn the floor, and it’s filtered through the falling rain. The floor looks like water, and Peter tilts his head, wondering oddly if he gets up from this bed and tries to walk across it will he drown.

 

Turning his head to the right, he gazes down at the bed. Lydia is fast asleep, looking calmer now than she had when she appeared at his doorway earlier. She was half mad and out of her wits, shaking from cold in her soaked dressed and matted hair, her wild eyes pleading for help without recognizing him. Him. Help her.

 

It was amusing once. It isn’t anymore.

 

Peter had caught her before she fell, and his first instinct was to call one of her witless friends. But then they would blame _him_ for her condition, so he decided against that. It was more trouble than it was worth, so he led her to the bed and gave her something hot to drink. It would stop the chills at the very least. Before he could come back with a second mug, Lydia was out cold.

 

He had narrowed his eyes; she was soaked, and now his bed was going to get wet.

 

He left her alone for hours, but now it’s night. Surely, someone would go looking for her. Peter doesn’t know if she has her phone on her, and he decided a while ago that he wasn’t going to check through her clothes for it. He hasn’t heard a single ring or buzz since she appeared on his doorstep, so maybe her phone isn’t even on her.

 

 _Who knows where she’s even been_ , he thinks to himself, raising a single eyebrow.

 

He gets up from the bed, walking towards the window.

 

Her friends are out there somewhere, worried about her. He doesn’t care. Peter narrows his eyes at the very notion that he could even care about that, but she came to him for some reason. In her madness, in her lost mind, she came here. Seeking shelter or safety, whatever those things are to her. Maybe she sought neither of them. Maybe something else brought her here.

 

Peter stares at the raindrops, lost in watching them fall, when he hears a rustle that catches his attention.

 

He turns around to see Lydia standing behind him. He is taken aback. He didn’t hear her getting out of bed. It was a rustle of her dress or her hair that alerted him to her presence, but no sound of a shifting bed or rustling sheets. The scent of her is clear through the rainwater on her skin, and her eyes are wide, but not accusing this time. It’s new, but not unpleasant.

 

“Why am I here?” she immediately asks, firm. Unyielding. Her stance is as rigid as her hands are at her sides.

 

 _She thinks that I brought her here_ , Peter muses, and he cracks a small smile. His head tilts in a predatory way, and then he takes a step forward. As soon as he is close enough to share a breath with her, Lydia takes a step back to put the distance between them again. She smells even better up close, high emotions, tense body language, and pulsing heart.

 

“You _came_ here,” Peter tells her. He could play with her, but really, he’s in no mood for games tonight. His bed is going to smell like wet teenager, which has its advantages and disadvantages. Still, he didn’t ask her to come here. “You looked half out of your mind—or all the way out of your mind, give or take a few marbles.”

 

“Why would I come here?” Lydia asks, sounding so unsure of herself. Her eyes dart left to right, then right to left across his loft.

 

All alone, with none of her friends to help make her decisions for her.

 

Finally, Peter shrugs.

 

“Don’t know,” he says, turning to walk away from her. “You can leave now if you’ve retrieved your mind back. This isn’t a hotel.”

 

“ . . . You’re kicking me out?”

 

Peter pauses. He lifts his brow. Admittedly, he wasn’t expecting that response. She sounds offended by his dismissal.

 

He turns around to face her again. Leaning on the counter with one arm, Peter gestures at his bed. “Well, you’re welcome to stay, but I’m not sleeping on the floor, so—”

 

It’s a joke. He is joking. He doesn’t want her to stay.

 

There is an unmistaken look of incredulity on Lydia’s face, though.

 

“ . . . Okay,” she says, and her head moves with the motion. She looks like he just told her it’s raining outside, which is the perfect weather for a raincoat.

 

Peter is caught off guard. This isn’t going the way he meant for it to go. He loses his posture for a moment, his arm falling slack to his side.

 

“That’s not an invitation,” Peter says to her.

 

“Oh, so it’s a favor?” Lydia says back, biting her lip as she raises her eyebrows. She is being smart with him. She turns away from Peter, heading back to the bed. He feels his mouth fall open as Lydia takes a seat on the edge of it, running her fingers through her hair like a comb to get out the tangles. “Left side or right side?” she asks.

 

“What?”

 

Lydia looks up at him, blinking. “Left side or right side?” she repeats, perfectly fine. “Which side of the bed do you prefer?”

 

This is a trick question. “ _All_ of it,” Peter says.

 

“Hmph,” Lydia muses, pursing her lips together. “That does complicate things.”

 

Without waiting for another response from him, she lies down on the side closest to the windows. Peter watches in disbelief as she settles herself into a comfortable position, laying her cheek onto her hand and closing her eyes. Itching to yank her up from the bed while ordering her to leave, Peter holds back on the urge. In any other situation, he wouldn’t have hesitated, but this is Lydia—and Lydia is different.

 

Instead, he paces around his loft for an hour or two until the rain has slacked off, falling in a soft drizzle instead of a downpour. When he suspects she is finally asleep, he walks to the open side of the bed. He is _not_ sleeping on the floor. This is his apartment. It’s not hers to do with as she pleases.

 

However, Peter is very conscious of the young woman lying beside him when he settles into bed. There is a foot or two between them at least, and he cannot close his eyes. This discomfort he feels, the acknowledgement, all of it sets his heart onto an uneasy beat, harder and faster than normal.

 

Truth be told, he hasn’t shared his bed with anyone in a long while.

 

When his eyelids start to drift close of their own accord, he feels a hand lay itself against his back with a light, tickling touch. It shocks him awake again, his eyes shooting wide open. He turns onto his back, looking over at her. Lydia is awake, too, her eyes locked on him. Her lips are parted slightly as she scans his face. Her hand has retreated, though her fingers remain splayed as they had been against the back of his shirt.

 

“Why are you touching me?” he asks, knowing how ridiculous it must sound.

 

He shouldn’t have let her stay. He realizes that now.

 

Lydia closes her mouth, swallowing against her emerging words. “I’m not sure,” she answers him. She breathes out slowly, and her muscles seem to relax. Lydia then props herself up on her arm, looking bolder and surer of herself. Tilting her head to the side, she sweeps the hair off of her neck. It bares her pale skin in the moonlight, drawing his eyes instantly to her bare throat and pulsing beat of her veins.

 

He isn’t a vampire, but he has a thing about throats.

 

“Why don’t you try it?” Lydia asks him with a soft tone, sounding unexpectedly casual about the offer.

 

His eyes dart from her throat to her eyes, narrowing at her. Peter thinks in games rather than normal human interactions, and he tries to think of the reason behind this one, but he comes up blank. Still, her throat is enticing adorned in silver, and she has always been a beautiful girl. He weighs the pros and cons as he searches her expression for a crack, finding none, and dismisses the cons.

 

He leans towards her slowly, gauging her reaction for a flinch or a motion that pulls her back. He sees neither. She can change her mind at any minute, and she better do it now before he gets a real taste. Lydia remains in place, though, her heart pounding but her bones steady. He dips in close to her neck, his lips grazing the skin ever so softly. Under the scent of rainwater, he can smell the scent of _Lydia_. It overwhelms the last bit of restraint, and he closes his lips over her neck to kiss her—no biting, not this time.

 

Peter can _feel_ the beating of her heart. He is so close, their chests graze, and there is an overpowering urge to tear off his shirt and mount her, but he kisses her as softly as possible and as slowly as his willpower can allow. His fingers reach up to brush the stray remnants of her hair behind an ear, trailing down the back of her neck to her shoulder blades. Lydia shudders beneath his touch, leaning into him. Whatever plans she might have, he doesn’t mind them much right now. As long as he can keep doing this, he considers this a win.

 

Each kiss leads him up her neck to her jaw, and then to the corner of her mouth. Lydia parts her lips, chest heaving, and he hears a sigh or a moan or a mixture slightly in between the two. He captures her lips with his own, drowning the noise between them. Lydia returns the kiss, though, her hand reaching up behind his head, her fingers running through his hair. Peter feels the tingle of fingertips running along his scalp, and then Lydia makes the first move to deepen the kiss.

 

He feels her tongue slide along his own, and he isn’t sure how things get so quickly out of hand. He rolls on top of her, her hair splayed on the pillow beneath them, and every kiss is hard, harsh, and demanding. Her hands run up under his shirt, and he reaches for the edge of her dress, pushing it up. Her legs are hooked on either side of his waist and hips, sneakers and socks still on her feet but he doesn’t care.

 

He doesn’t bother taking off his shirt. She doesn’t bother removing her dress. His hands glide over her bare legs and over her hips, fingers hooking underneath her panties and sliding them off. When he is settled between her legs again, she finds the waistband of his boxers and pushes them down, baring his ass to the cold air, but then her nails drag upward along his skin. He hisses into the touch.

 

With every eager muscle on fire, he can’t hold back. He covers her mouth with a smothering kiss. He could prepare her using his fingers, but when he touches her between the legs, he finds she is soaking wet and ready. With one hand propping his body above hers, he slides his tongue inside her mouth as he gives her clit a good hard rub until she is writhing and moaning beneath him. When she grasps his hips again, nails digging until it starts to hurt, he takes himself in hand and guides himself home inside of her.

 

Lydia gasps against his lips, and he finds his are open, too. There is an intensity thrumming between their bodies that he doesn’t remember being in sex before, but she doesn’t ask him to go nicely and he doesn’t try. The mattress shakes with every roll of his hips, and Lydia’s cries are nothing like those banshee screams of hers. He slows down, almost pulling out all the way, only to sink into her again until he reaches the hilt. His hand is so tight on the bed frame that his knuckles are white. He lets out a heavy breath, and Lydia opens her eyes to look at him.

 

Her eyes are wide and full of lust, but other things are hiding on the corner of her peripheral vision. He stares back, and this time, he moves slower, repeating the act from just a moment ago. Lydia gasps, arching into him, allowing him to go deeper, and he feels his mouth part again as she takes him in. Their breaths mingle, and their eyes lock. Peter lowers his head, capturing her lips with his once more.

 

He has gotten his fill of her like this, and he pulls out to a small sound of dismay from her throat. Rolling her over, he pulls her hips up to get her onto her elbows and knees. If she is surprised by his choice of action, she doesn’t show it. She parts her legs as he settles behind her and drives himself in deep. Lydia cries out in surprise, her body involuntarily pulling back and her back arching before him. He grasps her hips to hold her in place, though, and finds a rhythm to fuck her hard and fast.

 

She buries her face into the pillow to drown her cries, her back still in a firm, tense arch. As he lets go of her hips, he finds a place on the center of her lower back to hold her as he continues to thrust until he is spent. He pulls out before that happens, and it covers her bare skin, catching the glint of the moonlight and reflecting his deed back to him, but he doesn’t feel dirty. He should, but he doesn’t. He knows he is, though.

 

Lowering himself to the bed, he catches his breath while lying sprawled out on his back. In the back of his mind, he realizes he’s pulling up his boxers again. Without thinking about it, he rolls onto his side and draws Lydia into his arms. He leans into the crook of her neck to breathe in her scent, nuzzling against her shoulder. She smells sweet—her hair—and warm and sensual, her perfume, and above it all is the heady scent of sex.

 

There is a blissful moment of silence hanging in the air, and then Lydia breathes out, “I only came once.”

 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Only once?” he says, and he takes care of that.

 

When she is panting in his arms with her back to his chest and his muscled arm over hers, he can feel the tremors still riding through her body from her orgasm. He holds her close and combs the hair out of her face. It is ridiculously sweet, given what they have just done.

 

“You know,” Lydia says, her voice low, “you’re not so bad when you try to be just a little bit decent.”

 

“And what have I done tonight that was decent?” Peter asks, genuinely curious for her answer.

 

Lydia is quiet at first, musing over it. “You let me stay,” she says. “You kept to your side of the bed.”

 

Peter cannot help but roll his eyes. “I _hardly_ kept to my side of the bed.”

 

Lydia runs her fingers along his arm. “I touched you first . . . ”

 

Peter creases his forehead in thought. Well, that part’s true. “Everyone has their drawbacks,” he finally answers.

 

Her hand stills in its path along his arm. “Why is yours power at any cost, no matter who it hurts?”

 

 _Deep, Lydia_ , he thinks. She would go for such a vulnerable subject in a vulnerable position. Peter is quiet initially, mulling over how to best answer her question. “We all have something we want. I happen to want power.”

 

“You can achieve that without hurting people,” Lydia whispers. There is a beat. “You can help them.”

 

“I’m selfish by nature.”

 

“There are other things to want—”

 

“You,” he says, the word barely a spoken breath.

 

“You just had me,” she whispers back, turning over in his arms to face him. Her eyes are dark, her lips swollen red from his kisses and her biting. Peter traces his thumb along her jaw.

 

“Sex is such a mediocre accomplishment to want,” he tells her.

 

Lydia gazes back at him as he slides his thumb along her bottom lip. She parts them, and Peter slips his thumb past her lips into the warmth of her mouth. She licks it, keeping eye contact with him. When she closes her lips around his thumb and sucks, he closes his eyes as a shudder passes through his spine. He imagines her lips elsewhere and grows hard again at the mental image.

 

Lydia pulls her lips free. “How else would you want me, then?”

 

Peter opens his eyes. He blinks at first, wondering at his own mind. He casts his gaze over the features of her face, both delicate and yet strong in their own right, and then he imagines the simplicity of having someone to hold, someone to draw comfort from, and when he looks behind his vision into his head, he sees her face on the woman nestled in his arms.

 

That may never come to be, though, because he won’t ever change. God knows he has tried once or twice, but the endeavor was quickly discarded. He will never change, and she would never stay with him as he is now. Peter knows this. He’s not delusional.

 

He breathes out slowly, brushing a hand idly through her hair. “Best not to think of those things,” he tells her. “Wishes and wanting are a dangerous path, Lydia.”

 

Lydia tilts her head to the side. “I don’t love you,” she affirms. Her voice doesn’t crack. It doesn’t break. It doesn’t give away something that isn’t there.

 

He finds it doesn’t hurt. He isn’t surprised at all.

 

“I don’t love you either,” he replies easily, despite the gentle way in which his fingers comb through her hair.

 

“Good,” Lydia says, and she leans in close to whisper the next words in his ear. “I want to do it again, only this time . . . I want you to act like you do.”

 

That part—that does surprise him.

 

His face shows that he is taken off guard, but a game is a game, and this is a fun pastime. He slides his hand behind her hair, pulling her closer and capturing her lips with his in a slow kiss. She tastes sweet like strawberries for a brief second, the remnants of a lip balm that only he can taste, and he lets himself believe for one radical moment that he is capable of something like love.

 

 


End file.
